


The fear of falling apart

by RemainNameless



Series: Starts with "F", Ends with "U" [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Badwrong, Blow Jobs, Coming In Pants, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, Face-Fucking, Finger Sucking, M/M, Pre-Slash, Rafael McCall is a douchebag, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-12-27 09:34:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RemainNameless/pseuds/RemainNameless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>later sequel to "You hollow out my hungry eyes"</p><p>Stiles doesn't count on Rafa not having any boundaries. He'd thought that this might be the line he'd draw.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The fear of falling apart

**Author's Note:**

> WOW THERE ARE WARNINGS. WHAT A SURPRISE.  
> ONE) u really should start with the first part. Because a lot of stuff has happened yo.  
> TWO) ok guys, you know what's what by now. This chapter has some non-consensual exhibitionism (trust me, that's a thing, u will see) and because of it, there's a bj that goes pretty dubcon. Also, just creepy stuff really. One might almost think Rafa wants the Sheriff to catch on.

Stiles’ dad is sitting at the dining room table with a bottle of Jack, but it’s mostly full. He looks up when he sees Stiles and doesn’t look away. There’s obvious stress in his face, in the lines around his mouth and the resigned set of his brow. Stiles goes and sits across from him instead of grabbing a swig of OJ from the fridge. 

His dad sighs, rubs his temples, like he can’t look at the files in front of him anymore. “I thought it would be easier, knowing what’s going on,” he says, “but it just means I have to worry about covering it all up.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles offers. 

“Don’t be. You didn’t invent werewolves or _magic_. Jesus Christ. Sometimes, I can’t believe this is all real.” 

“It gets easier,” Stiles says, but he doesn’t want to lie. “Well, it _should_. If there weren’t all of this new crap piling up, then it would get easier. Knowing about it gets easier, at least. Dealing with it...it is what it is.”

His dad looks at his half-empty glass, touches the rim of it. “They’re trying to find motive. The FBI. I don’t even know if I’m _allowed_ to tell them it’s some sort of occult thing. That this woman believed in ritual sacrifice. And then I have to explain why she’s _dead_ and who killed her, and I don’t even know who did it. I know it wasn’t Scott and I don’t _think_ it was Derek, but I don’t know what to tell anyone. I don’t think they believed me when I told them I didn’t remember anything from being kidnapped.”

“It wasn’t Derek,” Stiles says because he knows from Scott, at the very least, that Derek had no intention of killing her. “And you can always just tell them she was a satanist or something. There’s always satanists killing people for no reason, right?”

“You watch too much TV,” his dad tells him. 

Stiles shrugs. “What else can you say? Anyway, let them pin it on whoever they want. It’s out of your hands.”

“They want Derek for it. Or they’re starting to look at him. They’ve got security footage from the school that shows he was involved with her. They don’t have enough for a warrant, but they think he might have figured out what she was doing and tried to stop it.” His dad gives him a heavy look. “They don’t like that he left town right after. Or that he’s been implicated in shit from the spring. I think they might start looking into that next, and I don’t know how to stop them.”

“That’s not good.” It’s a massive understatement, but it’s all Stiles can manage.

“If they _do_ get a warrant, are they going to find anything at his place?”

With a snort, Stiles asks, “Like what? _How to be a Werewolf for Dummies_?”

“No,” his dad says sharply, “like something from _you_. Anything, an article of clothing, a notebook, something of yours that’ll put you there. I don’t want anyone to have reason to believe you’re an accessory. I know you’re friends with him, but I can’t worry about you getting arrested on top of everything.” 

“What about him? He didn’t do it. He didn’t know who she was. None of us did. We can’t just hang him out to dry like that. It’s not fair.” 

“Then you better tell him to make sure his tracks are covered,” he says. “Because soon enough, they’re going to show up at his door and bring him in for questioning. Make sure his story is straight. I can’t stop it from happening, but we might be able to minimize the damage.” 

“I will,” Stiles tells him. He can fix it, probably. Might be able to push Rafa in a different direction. But it’ll take some work, and he’s going to need to know what he’s up against. 

 

Friday after school, he goes down to the station. 

Deputy Barker is at the front desk, flicking through a magazine, cheek resting against one hand. She gives him a tired smile when she sees him. 

“Your dad went out for a late lunch a little while ago,” she tells him. “You can wait for him in by the drunk tanks.” 

Stiles frowns. “Why not his office?”

“FBI ‘relocated’ him,” she says with air quotes. “Said they needed an office. Apparently, the drunk tanks weren’t good enough for _them_.” 

“How many Feds are we talking?” Stiles asks. This is going to make things more difficult by far. He’d been hoping he could casually check out a suspect board or something. 

“There’s a few. Most of them are down at the morgue, though, thank God. The guy leading the whole thing is the only one who’s here regularly, but I heard they might bring in one of those Criminal Minds guys if things don’t clear up.” She leans in, lowering her voice. “Between you and me, I think they need all the help they can get.” 

He grins, the fake kind of grin he might’ve stolen from Derek. “I’m sure they do,” he says before heading back into the station. 

There’s a plan half-formed in his head, where he turns the tables on Rafa. And he’s just going to do it. He has to. If he doesn’t, he’ll regret it, he’ll hate himself for missing the opportunity. 

The door says _Sheriff Stilinski_ , so at least Rafa didn’t take the nameplate off. 

Stiles knocks, maybe to delay the ambush. He wants to see how much it pisses Rafa off that he’d come to him here, wants it too much, maybe. 

“ _Come in_ ,” he hears. It’s a little muffled through the door. Stiles smiles to himself before turning the knob. 

Rafa’s eyes narrow at first when they recognize him, then he leans back in his chair, hands coming up behind his head.

“Not your dad’s office anymore, kiddo,” he says, and Stiles remembers how much he hates him as he shuts the door behind himself. There isn’t a window on the door, so maybe this is safe. Maybe it’s too safe. 

“I was looking for _you_ ,” Stiles says, shoving his hands in his pockets as he approaches the desk in a circle, taking in the board in the corner, the filing cabinet that doesn’t belong. What he _needs_ is a minute, just long enough to snap a few photos on his phone, alone in the room. But that’s not going to happen, so maybe a little time, long enough to take it in will do. Or just long enough to make Rafa drop his guard. 

“What do you want?”

Stiles smirks. “I think you know,” he says, and Rafa _grins_. His legs spread a little and Stiles walks up between them. “I know you must be very, very busy. Maybe I should come back later?” Rafa’s hands slip under his shirt, move from his hips to his back and down, beneath the waistband of his briefs. 

“Not too busy for this,” Rafa tells him. His fingers just move over Stiles’ skin, but does he have no fear? If someone were to come in, even if they’re not really doing anything, it’s still a hell of a position to be caught in with the Sheriff’s son. Especially in the Sheriff’s office. 

“Are you sure?” Stiles asks, gripping the back of his dad’s chair as he moves into Rafa’s lap. “I could go. Maybe I could wait for you in your bed instead.”

Rafa hums, cups his ass and pulls him in close, and he looks so fucking _pleased_ that Stiles can’t see his face anymore, so he leans in to his ear, brushes his mouth against it. 

“I wouldn’t be able to wait, you know,” he whispers. “I’d tell myself I was just getting ready for you, but I’d have a hard time remembering that with my fingers buried in my ass. Or maybe I’d just want you to punish me for coming before you got home.” 

“Isn’t it easier like this?” Rafa asks in a low voice. “Don’t you feel better just letting yourself want what you want?” He holds Stiles in place while he thrusts up in a slow grind against him, and yeah, Rafa’s hot in a way he doesn’t like, gets his blood pumping and his cock leaking. There’s no point in saying he doesn’t. Sure, Stiles wants to know _why_ , but this isn’t the time for that. 

“I want you to fuck me. Right here,” he says, rolling his hips down.

Rafa huffs a laugh against his neck. “Would if I could, baby, but I like you loud too much to get away with it. I don’t want you to have to be quiet.”

 _That_ ’s not quite what he wants, but Stiles is an improviser, if nothing else. “Let me suck you, then. I want you in my mouth.”

“Yeah,” Rafa says, a little breathy, “a dirty mouth like that should be filled.”

Stiles slides off his lap, down his body, ending up under the desk. Back when he was younger, he used to play down here. Used to sit curled up in this spot with his Gameboy playing Pokemon. Now, he helps Rafa undo his belt and slacks, pulls his cock out. It’s flushed dark, and the sight of it makes Stiles swallow unconsciously. 

This is the third time he’s ever given a blowjob, he thinks loudly enough to echo. Last time was quick, just foreplay for Rafa, but this is the main event. So he takes his time. Milks it. Looks up at Rafa with too-wide eyes as he kisses the head as sweetly as he can. A shiny drop pushes out of his slit, and Stiles laps it up, not breaking eye contact as Rafa’s hand curls in his hair. Doesn’t quite pull, but there’s a pressure against his scalp. 

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” Rafa asks quietly, and Stiles knows he doesn’t mean it. At least not in the right way. Not in the way he wants to be called _beautiful_. It’s okay, though. Because he doesn’t really want that from Rafa. This isn’t about being loved.

Stiles takes the head in his mouth gently, brushing his lips against the warmth of Rafa’s shiny-smooth skin. The pout to it is a little bit exaggerated, but he knows how Rafa likes his mouth. 

He’s got that sort of weird dick taste. The one that makes Stiles want to find some guy to hold down and blow so he’ll know if it’s just Rafa or if it’s dicks in general. But Stiles smooths his tongue over it, feels the dip of the slit in the smooth dome of Rafa’s cockhead, the little depression at the bottom. Traces the edge of it with just the tip of his tongue. 

Above him, Rafa breathes heavily and rubs his scalp. He doesn’t really talk, just scoots forward so Stiles has to back up until his ass and lower back hit the inside wall of the desk. 

His mouth is wet on his own, and it’s enough to sink down a little, take Rafa further into his mouth. The taste is stronger, and now, he sucks a little. Gently. Just enough to tease at something more. Rafa’s palm flattens against his skull but doesn’t push. 

The girth of him spreads Stiles’ lips wide. He’s got a big mouth, always said it, but it’s not big enough for this to be _easy_. As he sinks further down, the head of Rafa’s cock bumping against the roof of his mouth and into the entrance to his throat, his mouth feels too open, too full. His tongue is pressed down as far as it’ll go, teeth open tall, and still, it almost feels like he’s about to choke. But Stiles has never had much of a gag reflex, not unless he’s looking at something bloody, and he forces himself to go down on the hot, hard length until Rafa’s zipper is scraping his chin. 

Rafa’s hand is soft, petting his head, almost, as Stiles tries to swallow around him. His throat burns and it’s hard to keep his breathing even through his nose and his eyes are watering, but apparently, it’s good enough. It’s not so easy to suck like this, and all he can do is move his tongue a tiny bit from side to side, but when he looks up, Rafa’s mouth is open and his eyes are dark.

Steeling himself first, Stiles moves a little. Moves his head like he’d moved his body for Rafa in the locker rooms. Like his mouth is just another hot, wet hole. Which it is, really. As far as Rafa’s concerned. 

It’s harder to suck when he’s moving, harder to keep his lips tight enough to retain some suction without it being too tight to move easily, but he’s drooling a little, enough that there’s not enough friction to burn his lips. It just aches a little. Makes them feel warm, the way the corners of his mouth burn a little from the stretch. It’s not a whole lot of fun for his jaw, really, and he can feel the strain of it. The feeling isn’t an ache, not yet, but it’s a promise that in a couple minutes, at most, it will be.

And then there’s a sound, knocking on wood, and for a split second, Stiles thinks he’s hitting the underside of the desk, but he isn’t.

“Come on in,” Rafa says, and Stiles goes still. His stomach boils cold, heart starting to beat too hard, but there’s nothing he can do. 

“Found the arrest record for Derek Hale,” an all-too-familiar voice says. “I have _no_ idea why it was in with the DUI charges, but that’s rookie deputies for you.”

Stiles forces himself to breathe slow, calm breaths through his nose so he doesn't scream, horribly aware of Rafa’s cock pulsing against his tongue. 

“Only as good as who’s training them,” Rafa says. “But thank you. You can set it on my desk.”

“ _My_ desk,” Stiles hears, then footsteps on carpet. 

“It will be, when I’m done cleaning up after you,” Rafa says, and Stiles is going to kill him. He’s going to murder him. _No one_ talks to his dad like that. Except he’s not really in a good place to do anything about it, considering that _holy shit he’s going to die._

“You _know_ how much man power we have, and you _know_ that we’ve had three serial killers in the past eight months, and you know that one of them took out nearly all of my deputies. So you can save it.” Stiles wants to fist pump for his dad, but there’s still the fact that his fucking _dad_ is right there, not five feet away, one noise away from discovering him with Rafa’s cock halfway down his throat. _Fuck_. 

Rafa’s hand, each finger a hot line in his hair, tightens against Stiles’ scalp. “Doesn’t explain why you couldn’t find the file I asked you for _two days ago_ until just now. That's assuming that, contrary to what I heard, you didn’t go for lunch when you were supposed to be looking for it.” The hand pulls him in, and Stiles does everything he can to minimize the noise as he’s forced down Rafa’s cock all the way to the base. 

“I’ve been here since seven this morning,” Stiles’ dad says, frustration clear in his voice, “and I don’t remember seeing _you_ here then. So don’t give me that shit. I may not _like_ you, but I’m doing my job, and I’m doing it damn well. So you can _fuck off_.” It’s the first time Stiles has ever heard him say the f-word, and he doesn’t even get to enjoy it because all he can think of is how Rafa’s twitching in his mouth, the hard beat of his pulse, going all the way from Stiles’ lips to his throat. 

“I hope it was a satisfying lunch, then,” Rafa says, and something about it sounds like a threat, enough to make Stiles’ hackles rise. “Is that all?”

“Yeah. It damn well is,” Stiles’ dad snaps, and Stiles can hear his shoes thudding against the carpet as he heads out, the soft slam of the door and the click of the latch. There’s a second pause and then Rafa pulls him by his hair off a little, almost to the head of his cock, before moving him back down again. 

“Fuck yeah, just like that, baby,” Rafa hisses, thrusting up into his mouth. Stiles can feel it bruising the back of his throat and he _hates_ him, fucking wants to tear him apart, but he takes it. Lets Rafa fuck his mouth, jamming his cock down harder and faster so it’s more difficult to breathe, until he hears a low groan and Rafa basically grinds into his mouth. Not even a fraction of a second later, the door opens again. 

“Are you okay?” Stiles hears something that’s not quite concern and not quite suspicion in his dad’s voice, and he’s about to cry, maybe. Not just his eyes watering all over his face as he feels something warm going down his throat.

“Fine,” Rafa says quickly, a little out of breath, on edge. “Heartburn. You know how it is. What did you want?”

“Have you seen my son at all?” Stiles goes cold all over, guilt and nausea roiling in his stomach. “Deputy Barker said he dropped by, but I haven’t seen him.”

“No. But I’ll be sure to tell him to find you if I do.” Rafa clears his throat, hand removing itself from the back of Stiles’ head to, he sees when he looks up, straighten his tie. “Is that all?”

There’s a slight pause, and then, “Yeah. Thanks.” Stiles counts the frantic beats of his heart in his fingertips until the door clicks shut again. At that point, he leans away, pulling Rafa’s cock out of his throat with a little, sick sound.

He’s mad enough to take a few swings and never stop, but that won’t get him anywhere. It won’t be lasting, and it’ll probably fuck up everything he’s established so far. So he says and does nothing. Just kneels there and wipes the spit from his mouth as Rafa rolls his chair back a few inches and looks down at him between his thighs. 

“You did so good, baby,” he says, sliding a hand up Stiles’ shoulder to the back of his neck to pull him out from under the desk. “I’m so proud of you. C’mere.” He stands as he pulls Stiles up to his feet. His hands cup Stiles’ face at first, then his fingers trail down, too hot, to trace Stiles’ lips. They feel a little numb at the contact. 

Stiles grips the edge of the desk so hard his fingertips ache to stop himself from punching Rafa in the face. Or saying something stupid. 

“It gets you hot, doesn’t it? Knowing how easy it is for someone to walk in on us.” One of his hands drops down to squeeze Stiles’ cock, and yeah, he’s hard still. There are very, very few things that can totally kill a boner for him, and rage and disgust aren’t actually on that list. _Seeing_ his father’s face? Yes. But if he doesn’t have to see it, some part of him, the part that controls his dick, can pretend it isn’t there. 

“You get off on it, don’t you?” Rafa asks, a practiced hand massaging and rubbing him through his jeans. “You _like_ that someone might know how much of a slut you are for me. But just me, kiddo. Isn’t that right?”

Stiles makes himself nod, but his hips buck involuntarily when Rafa’s grip tightens on his cock, shooting pleasure through him, despite the cottony rub of his underwear. It’s fucking good is the problem, like he knows how to get Stiles totally going even though he’s maybe _never_ touched Stiles’ cock. Maybe he does. Either way, he presses the pads of three fingers against Stiles’ lips until his mouth opens and he lets them in. 

“Suck like a good boy,” Rafa murmurs, and fuck, it’s not fucking _fair_. It’s not fair that he can make Stiles get off even though he wants to murder him. It’s not fair that he somehow knows all of Stiles’ buttons and just how to press them. “Good. That’s it. Use that pretty cocksucking mouth. One day, I’m going to come all over it, see how good white looks against those lips of yours.”

His hand presses tighter, and Stiles gives up, just grinds down into his palm. Even though it _hurts_ a little, even though he’s pretty sure he’s starting to understand what chafing is, even though he wants to bite Rafa’s fingers off. 

“God, I just wanna mark you all up, kiddo. Fill you up with my come, cover you in it. That’s how you should be, isn’t it? Looking like sex, like you just got rode _hard_ for all the world to see. I’d want them to, you know. Let them see my come slipping out of your pretty, used hole. Show everyone what you’ll let me do to you.” 

He’ll maintain that it’s the pressure on his cock that gets him off, makes him blow his load as he humps Rafa’s hand like he’s exactly what Rafa says he is, but he’s choking off a moan around Rafa’s fingers and it just feels fucking _good_. Just for those few, bright seconds of orgasm.

And then Stiles is standing there with hot, wet jizz in his underwear and drool around his mouth and Rafa’s looking at him like he’s a miracle. 

“Good boy,” he says. “Why don’t you go clean up and make sure your precious _father_ isn’t too worried?” 

Rafa pulls away, wipes his spit-slick hand on Stiles’ hip, and smacks him on the ass when he turns to leave. 

“Might want to do something about your mouth. Don’t want your dad to think you cut a glory hole into the station bathroom.” He winks, and Stiles does his very best not to launch himself at him, rip him apart. Instead, he forces himself to smirk and leave, tries to walk as if he didn’t cream his pants, and heads to the bathroom to clean himself up.

Slipping out of the room without being noticed is just a mark of luck, really, and he tries to take something from that as he walks down the hallway as normally as possible. In the second stall, he wipes himself down, straightens his shirt, and takes a few deep breaths. He’s okay. No, he didn’t get the information he wanted, but Rafa thinks he’s playing into his hand. He’s at least doing a good job there. That was something to come from this. It wasn’t all for nothing. He didn’t let Rafa use him for no reason. 

He repeats that to himself as he ducks out of the stall and checks himself out in the mirror. His lips do look a little swollen, but there’s not really anything he can do about it, so he splashes some cold water on his face. 

It hadn’t been for nothing. 

His dad looks up when Stiles finds him. “Where’ve you been?”

“Bathroom,” Stiles answers quickly. “How’s it going?”

“Fine. Everything’s fine. Just finishing some stuff up. I’ll be home before dinner. I was thinking I’d cook tonight. Spaghetti sound good?”

“Turkey meatballs,” Stiles says automatically. “But yeah. I’m going to head over to— I might be a little late is all.”

“Alright. I’ll make a plate for you,” his dad says, then looks down at the papers in front of him. “I’ll see you later, then.”

Stiles nods. “Yeah. See you.”

His stomach is spinning when he leaves, and maybe he drives a little too fast to Derek’s, but who fucking cares. He keeps repeating that it was worth it, that it wasn’t a total loss, but it feels empty and his body is cold and numb. 

 

Derek opens the door right away, looking utterly bizarre in a t-shirt and basketball shorts. He lets Stiles in, but Stiles just stands there by the door, forcing himself not to freak out about what he just did. 

“I didn’t know you actually had calves,” Stiles says lamely. It’s better than telling him everything. It feels easier. 

“Shockingly, I do have _legs_ ,” Derek says easily, but his eyes are intent on Stiles’ face. 

“Can I just—” Stiles cuts off, not sure how he’s going to finish that thought. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know if I can do this. I _hate_ it.” 

“What did he do to you?”

Stiles just shakes his head, wincing, because he can’t _say_ it, doesn’t want Derek to know how far he’s gone. He doesn’t want Derek to think he’s as dirty and fucked up as he is, doesn’t want him to know what he’s done, and then he’s shaking his head against Derek’s shoulder. He smells like laundry detergent and _Derek_ , and that’s enough to let Stiles breathe for a moment or two. 

Derek’s arms come up around him slowly, reluctantly. His hands stay up near Stiles’ shoulder blades and he just sort of _pats_. 

“You’re the most awkward hugger in the world, you know that?” Stiles says with a little snort. It’s weirdly endearing, honestly, in a way he’s not going to think too hard about.

“Shut up,” Derek tells him, but his hands slide across Stiles’ back, holding him in close with his forearms around Stiles’ shoulders. It’s kind of nice, actually, and Stiles lets himself wrap his arms around Derek’s waist. It shouldn’t be, but it’s easier to breathe like this. He feels _safe_ with Derek. Has since forever, really, but he feels it in his body now. It’s different than trusting him with his life. 

“I blew him,” Stiles says after a minute, words dampening Derek's shirt. “He stole my dad’s desk, and I sat under it and blew him. And my— he _talked_ to him. Like I wasn’t even there. And I just feel sick and gross and I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to be a person anymore.”

The flat of Derek’s cheek settles on top of his hair and it feels comforting the way Rafa’s hand didn’t. He doesn’t say anything for a long time, just breathes, and Stiles likes the way he can feel it. The very slight rise and fall of his shoulders, his stomach and chest expanding and contracting in Stiles’ arms, against his body. He’s warm and Stiles can feel his heartbeat through his chest, and it’s nice. It’s nice knowing he’s alive and _here_. 

But Stiles has to make sure he can keep him that way. So he drops his arms and pulls away. 

“You need to be careful,” he says, making eye contact. “They’re looking at you for killing Julia Gulia or whatever her real name was. If they come here, they can’t find anything from her. Or...or from me. _I_ don’t really care, but my dad wouldn’t take it well, so I can’t— They can’t know we’re friends.” 

“Okay.” The way he says it is so fucking _resigned_ that Stiles can’t take it because that’s not all there is to it, not really.

“Hey. It’s safer for you this way, alright?” he says, almost reaching out to touch Derek’s arm. “Rafa doesn’t like you, and he’s kind of...possessive. If he knows how well we know each other, he might come after you that much harder. I don’t want you to get arrested because of me. Again. Not happening.”

Derek just shrugs, looks away. 

“ _God_ , just let me protect you just this once, okay? That’s all I ask.” 

“You’re not going to fuck him again, are you?” _That’s_ a non-sequitur, or he wants to think it is. 

Stiles looks away. “I’m not sure. If it’ll help, then yeah. Yeah I will. If you have a problem with it, well, I guess I’ll figure something else out. I’ll deal with it myself.”

“I didn’t _say_ that,” Derek says sharply. “I’ll help you, I just— If it makes you upset, if it makes you unhappy, then I don’t see why you feel you have to keep doing it. It doesn’t make sense. You don’t deserve it.”

“Don’t _deserve_ it?” Stiles asks with a snort, a bitter taste at the back of his tongue. “I got off, okay? I came in my fucking pants, so don’t pretend you don’t know why I’m doing it. Don’t pretend I’m above it because I’m not. This is who I am. This is what I do. And it makes me _sick_ , but that’s just how it is. Deal with it or don’t. I don’t fucking care.” 

Derek’s mouth is tight. “I’m not going back on what I said. I’ll do whatever you need. I just wish you weren’t the one who was doing it.” 

“Yeah?” Stiles is halfway between laughing and snarling at him, itching with it. “If not me, then _who_? Who else is there? Who would you rather see driving themself crazy with this, huh?”

“I’d do it.”

 _That’s_ not what he’s expecting, but Stiles is too worked up to let it go. “You would? You’d let him fuck you? You’d get on your knees for him?” Derek nods once. “You don’t even know. You think you could handle it? Have you ever had a dick in your ass, Derek? Hmm?”

“Yeah, I have.” Stiles blinks back his surprise, can’t think of a response to that. “I hate him for this, for _you_ , but I’d do it in a second if it meant you didn’t have to.” 

The fight goes out of him at that. 

“I don’t think you’re his type anyway,” Stiles says after a second, quieter and softer than he intends. “You’re stronger than he is. I don’t think he’d like that very much. I think he likes them, you know—” he makes a sweeping gesture down his own body “—whatever. Not really into _men_ , I think. You’re too old.” 

Derek looks down, jaw clenching and unclenching. 

“It’s not really like that,” Stiles says, and he can see the second Derek registers the lie. “Alright, it is. It is and I don’t know how to deal with it. I’m not sure how far it goes, and it’s fucking terrifying. Thinking about it just freaks me out, but when I’m with him, I don’t have to think, I just— _What do I do?_ ”

“I don’t know. I have no idea,” Derek tells him, eyes a little wide, and Stiles wants to wrap himself up in him. Just curl up against his chest like a cat and disappear from everything like that. Derek is safe, if nothing else. But he’s not sure what the line is here, so he’ll see what he can do. 

“Can you smell him on me?” Stiles asks quietly. “I can _feel_ him, and I hate it.”

Derek nods, says, “A little, yeah.” 

“Should we— Last time, I mean, we got rid of it.” He indicates the couch with a little jerk of his head, and Derek runs a hand through his hair, looking down. 

“If that’s okay. We might be able to figure something else out, if that’s not—”

“It’s fine. I don’t mind,” he says, grabbing Derek’s wrist and leading him over to the couch. There’s a weird, awkward moment before Stiles says, “Couch rules, right? Just like last time?”

Derek nods.

“Alright then. How about this,” he says, getting down and pulling Derek over him. He seems _super_ uncomfortable, holding himself above Stiles almost a foot. “Is this not okay? I mean, he mostly touched my front, I just figured—”

“It’s fine, I just don’t want you to be, well, _uncomfortable_ ,” Derek says, not quite looking at him. “With me. Like this. If you were on top, you could get away easier. I mean, I wouldn’t— you _know_ I wouldn’t, but it might be more comfortable. For you.” 

Stiles wants to do something stupid, like kiss his face, but he doesn’t want to ruin this so he just shakes his head. “I trust you. It’s, like, proof, you know?” This time, when Stiles loops his arms under Derek’s and over his shoulders, he lets Stiles pull him on top of him. He adjusts a little, so their legs are alternating, Derek’s side fitting between Stiles and the back of the couch. His weight is on Stiles a little, but not to the point that it’s hard to breathe, just enough to keep him warm. He tucks his face against Stiles’ shoulder so they don’t have to make eye contact and it’s _good_. 

At least this time, he’s not fighting a boner. 

It’s not that kind of thing, really. Derek’s like a person blanket and a giant teddy bear as far as he’s concerned. Well, Stiles was never super into stuffed animals, something he feels kind of left out about, but he imagines that the point is to have something to snuggle with when you don’t feel good. Derek’s not very soft and, as far as Stiles can tell, not particularly fuzzy, at least not below his face, but maybe it’s magic werewolf juju or something. 

This is what he needs, really. Snuggles that they won’t have to talk about or explain later. Which is good, really, because the only thing Stiles can think of to explain it is _I like you_ , and he’s not so sure about that. Well, he _does_ , but he’s not sure if he’s okay with it. 

Derek is not unattainable the way Lydia is. There’s too much between them, too many little looks and little touches and big gestures. They can’t turn this into something _casual_. They can’t just have sex or anything like that. Whatever it would be would be too deep and a little too intense. It would _burn_ , and he’s not sure if it would be bright and fast and explosive or if it would settle into hot embers and burn long.

There’s just not time to worry about it. There’s too much going on for them to circle around each other, always has been, but now especially. 

Mostly, he’s afraid for Derek. He’s afraid of what Rafa might do if he thought there were something between them. Rafa’s never been explicitly _violent_ , but Stiles could hear the potential for it in the edge to his voice when he talked about other people fucking Stiles. It’s just a hunch, but it’s a good one. That it would get ugly. Derek’s got too much to lose, and if the whole werewolf thing gets out to _anyone_ , that’s trouble for the whole pack. 

But like this, Stiles doesn’t actually have to worry about any of it. He can just think about how good it feels to be close to him. The fact that Derek’s willing to do this, to drape an arm around him and breathe against his neck and not be worried about the fact that Stiles could probably hurt him, now that he’s off his guard. 

That’s the problem, though, isn’t it? Derek probably doesn’t _love_ him or anything, but he must _like_ Stiles. He’s doing so much for him, and sure, he didn’t _really_ know what he was saying, but he’d said he’d let Rafa fuck him for Stiles. That’s...that’s something. Even if he doesn’t know everything it entails, all of the things Rafa wants, all of the little ways he makes Stiles feel wrong even as he gets him off. If Derek knew, he might not be so quick to volunteer, but he _did_. 

There’s also the fact that Derek’s been fucked. By a dude. Or someone with a penis. And that’s an interesting thing that Stiles wants to think a little more about, but probably in private. Not with Derek on top of him. But that might be an interesting side of his sexuality that deserves some attention.

But not now. Bad time. Instead, he’ll think of the warm weight of Derek’s chest against his, the hot puffs of breath against his skin. Just comfort. 

Without really thinking about it, he realizes that one of his hands is smoothing over Derek’s back. It’s not that weird. Stiles always moves as he’s falling asleep, sweeping a foot in an arc over the edge his mattress or something, so it’s just an unconscious thing. A comforting, repetitive motion. And Derek doesn’t say anything. 

Actually, Derek might be asleep. Possibly. After last time, he’s not going to say he’s sure, but maybe. That means it’s okay, so Stiles lets himself drift off, cheek turning against Derek’s head.

 

Someone’s calling his name, shaking him gently, and he blinks into consciousness. Derek’s face is right above him and he’s _gorgeous_ in this silly way that makes him grin because this? This is a good way to wake up. They should do this all the time. 

“It’s late. Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” Derek says, his voice a little scratchy. 

Stiles takes a deep breath, almost a sigh, and stretches just a little. “I guess we should get up then, huh?” 

“Yep. Come on.” Derek untangles their legs and pushes himself up, off Stiles’ body. 

Fortunately, there’s no awkward boner situation this time. It’s all good. 

Derek hauls him up to his feet, and Stiles stretches himself out, gets his blood pumping again. His left arm is numb in spots where Derek was laying on him, but it’s fine. 

He throws a glance at Derek and he just looks _ridiculous_. Stiles has _never_ seen him in not-jeans, and the swingy basketball shorts sitting low on his hips are very nearly offensive. Partially because he’s barefoot, probably. He just looks _comfortable_. Derek _never_ looks comfortable.

“What?” he asks, looking down at himself.

“Nothing, it’s just...you look like a real person.” Stiles winces as soon as it comes out. “I mean, that’s probably offensive but I dunno. You look like someone who actually does laundry. Not like your clothes just spring into being, perfectly tailored, on your body.” 

That seems to make Derek remember something. “I’ve got your track clothes. From earlier this week. Just a second.” He heads to what Stiles had thought was a closet next to the bathroom, and Stiles hears the sound of a dryer door opening, then, “ _What the fuck?_ ”

“Did anything shrink? I didn’t think jersey stuff did that—”

“Holy _shit_ ,” he hears, then the sound of something thudding against metal hard enough to dent it. _That_ ’s enough to get Stiles in there.

Derek’s on his toes, peering out the small window above the dryer. It’s around sunset, but Stiles can see something that looks weirdly like smoke. Which, _what_? He clears the space, hopping up onto the dented dryer to get a look. 

“Is that your _car_?” Stiles breathes, stomach dropping. 

“ _Was_ ,” Derek says. “I think the past tense is more appropriate considering that it’s _on fire_. _Fuck_.”

Stiles doesn’t say it, but he’s fucking thankful he didn’t park anywhere near Derek, who always takes the furthest away spot. At least there aren’t any other cars that caught, but _shit_. It’s hard to tell because they’re up so high, but it looks like the tires have melted and the whole thing is a yellow-black mess. 

“You should call 9-1-1. Or should we go down and try to put it out? That seems like a bad idea, but maybe you have sk—”

Derek’s shaking his head quickly, jaw set. “I’m not going down there. Neither are you. It’ll put itself out.”

“ _Dude_. You have to at least _call_. Otherwise, you’re going to lose the car.”

The look on Derek’s face pretty clearly says that it’s already gone.

“Fine, _I_ ’ll call,” Stiles tells him, reaching into his pocket for his phone. Derek grabs his wrist. 

“You can’t. If the police investigate it, they’ll hear your voice on the recording. I’ll do it, I just…” He shakes his head as if to clear it. “Cars don’t spontaneously combust.”

“Arson,” Stiles says softly, which is a fucking horrible thought, considering. “Maybe it was just some street punks or something.”

“Street punks?”

“ _Youths_ ,” Stiles tells him with his best old man face. “You know, kids do shit like that all the time. I mean, troubled kids, yeah, but it’s not unheard of. Your car was far enough away that it would be the only thing to burn. It was probably just chance that it wasn’t mine or someone else’s. Really, not the best parking decision.” 

“My _car,_ ” Derek says in a thin, strained voice, “is on _fire_. Do _not_ talk to me about parking right now.”

“Sorry. I know you liked feeling like a soccer mom,” Stiles says because he can’t resist. The thing was _fugly_. 

“Go to the other room,” Derek tells him. “It was a hybrid, by the way. I was doing my part for the environment. Pretty sure that Jeep of yours wouldn’t pass an emissions test in rural China.” 

Stiles snorts. “Yeah, I bet all of the great chemical fumes it’s releasing in that smoke are just _great_ for the environment.”

“ _I_ wasn’t the one who set it on fire!” Derek snaps.

“Well, neither did I!” Stiles throws back. “And I’m kind of freaked out right now because I don’t believe in youths, okay? Someone _set your freaking car on fire_. Who even _does_ that?”

Derek sighs. “I don’t know. I...I would say it was Peter, but he’s not really fond of fire. But I don’t know if Deucalion is still around, and I don’t know what to do if he is, and I don’t know what to do about the fact that my one and only car is being consumed by flames, so can you just go sit down and give me a moment to figure out what I’m going to do? _Thank_ you.” 

“I’m just...living room. Is where I’ll be. If you need me.”

Stiles plops himself down in a beanbag chair. A second later, he hears Derek shaking the dryer and swearing, and seriously, he’s going to fuck up the dryer, and it’ll only exacerbate everything. But no, Stiles is going to let him figure that out for himself. 

Derek comes out after a minute of heavy breathing. “I’m going to call 9-1-1,” he says, “and then I’m going to go downstairs. You probably don’t want to be here when they send someone over.” 

“Right.” Stiles stares at him for a second before getting up. “Right, okay, I’m going to grab my clothes, then, and I guess, text me when your car isn’t on fire anymore? I...if you need a ride sometime this weekend, just let me know. I feel kind of bad about all this.” 

“Don’t. Just do yourself a favor and head out,” he says, phone in hand. 

Stiles nods, ducks into the laundry room for his clothes, and when he comes back out, Derek’s got the phone pressed to his ear.

“Yes, I’d like to report an emergency….My car is on fire….” Stiles winces at how _done_ he sounds and squeezes his shoulder lightly before heading out. To the elevator. Downstairs. Outside. 

Yeah, that’s really on fire. 

He can hear it, too. Crackling over a soft roar, little bursts as Stiles powerwalks to his Jeep. Ducks inside to avoid the smoke because _who knows_ what kind of weird hazardous shit is getting spewed into the air. 

Twenty minutes later, he’s home. His dad is on the couch with a beer. 

“Hey, I was just about to eat, actually—”

“Someone set Derek’s car on fire,” Stiles says quickly; his dad is halfway out of his chair in a second. “ _Completely_ up in flames.”

“Did he hear anything?” he asks. “Don’t they have some kind of—” he waves at his ear “— _thing_?”

“I don’t know. It must’ve started before we woke up or something, I don’t know.” He realizes, by his dad’s frown, that he’s said something bad. It takes him a second to realize what it was.

“Why were you and Derek both asleep at his place? That’s not a normal thing. People don’t nap together, Stiles, not unless they’ve been doing _other_ things together.” Stiles is kind of freaked by that a little, and his dad looks _weary_. “Have you had any sort of intercourse with Derek Hale?” his dad asks and he chokes. 

“ _No_. _God_ , Dad, we’re not sleeping together, okay? We were just chilling and we fell asleep. That’s all.”

“Look, Stiles,” his dad says, much more gently, “I know that you’re dating him. I know that couples move a lot faster these days, but I got the impression it was a pretty _recent_ thing.” 

Stiles buries his face in his hands because _this_ on top of Derek’s car on top of the shit he’s not thinking of from earlier this afternoon, it’s all too much. “Yeah, okay, we’re together or whatever, but it’s not like that. We were just kind of cuddling and then we fell asleep on accident.”

“He’s a cuddler?” his dad asks with a very skeptical look. 

“Yeah,” Stiles says with a smirk. “I know, he doesn’t look like it, but he’s a teddy bear, I swear. Gives good hugs, too.” 

“ _Please_ never tell me any further details about your physical relationship with him.” 

Stiles grins. “I won’t. Now can we get back to the part where someone torched hit Toyota? I mean, I thought it was an eyesore, too, but arson is a little far, you know?”

His dad nods, slowly going more and more tense. “Stiles, you know that Julia Bacari’s body was found at that tree stump, right? Well, they got tire tracks. Midsize vehicle. They _just_ put in for a warrant today to check Derek’s tires.”

“Oh _shit_ ,” Stiles breathes as the implication hits him. “They’re going to think he was trying to get rid of evidence. It’s not going to help at _all_. He parked away from the building, too. Away from all the other cars. That’s going to look so freaking suspicious, godammit.” 

Fuck, he needs to talk to Derek. They need to find a way to sort this all out because it’s starting to look suspicious as fuck. Especially since Stiles was there. After he was at the station. 

“We need to find out if there’s parking lot security cameras at Derek’s building,” Stiles says. “Because if they see me there after I came to visit you, it’s only a matter of time before someone remembers that I was at the station earlier today. That I didn’t stay long, and that you weren’t there when I first got there. Crap crap crap, this is _bad_ , this is so bad.” 

“You need to stop communicating with him. When they run his phone records, how much of you are they going to see?” Stiles bites his lip, rubbing his face like that’ll make this all go away. “We need to figure out someone else to pin Bacari’s murder on. ASAP. Do you know who actually did it?”

Stiles shakes his head. “The only two people I can think of are Peter and Deucalion. No one’s seen anything of Deucalion, and, well, let’s be honest: it was probably Peter. He’s actually evil and kind of scary, or he was, when he wasn’t de-powered. But he’s also legally dead, so I don’t know how, exactly, that helps us. Especially since both of them are werewolves anyway.” 

His dad frowns, thinking, and Stiles’ phone buzzes an incoming text in his pocket. He pulls it out, thinking it’ll be Derek, but it’s not. It’s fucking Rafa. **Come over.**

Sure, he doesn’t know that this is a _fucking terrible time_ , but it’s a fucking terrible time. **Can’t** he sends back quickly, shoving his phone back in his pocket right away. His dad is thinking and doesn’t seem to have landed on anything yet. 

“Let’s have dinner,” he says after a minute. “And then we’re going to figure something out.” 

Stiles nods, phone buzzing again. Rafa again. **Call me tonight.**

He tucks it away without responding and follows his dad into the kitchen. 

It was supposed to get better. After they eliminate a threat, it’s supposed to get easier, but this is worse. It’s just getting worse and worse. 

There’s no text from Derek even after they’ve done dishes, and it doesn’t help that Stiles knows that if he were arrested again, they’d confiscate his phone so he couldn’t text. His dad opens up a new bottle of whiskey, so Stiles goes upstairs to wait for Derek’s text instead of watching him drink until he passes out.

By the time Stiles has fallen asleep, the text still hasn’t come.

**Author's Note:**

> THE PLOT THICKENS DUNDUNDUNNNN  
> i know guys, very few people expected a plot from this, but i apparently have a weird compulsive disorder where i can't write plot-less things.   
> anyway, u can come say hi on tumblr if u want, cuties! xxoo


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